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Monday, December 15, 2014

“And when at last you find someone to whom you feel you can
pour out your soul, you stop in shock at the words you utter— they are so
rusty, so ugly, so meaningless and feeble from being kept in the small cramped
dark inside you so long.”

―Sylvia Plath

His
desire always prevailed in things that anguished him.

He
sat by his window, observing the raindrops dripping over his window sill, reading a short story by Raymond Carver. He lost the count of
the number of times he read it. He sought comfort in words and literature, in
music and art, in her and her idiosyncratic nature.

It
did not come as a surprise to him when he realized his despair and glee were tied down
to the same person.

“Should we meet?” he read her text message over and over again, trying to look for an inherent meaning.

“All said and done, why
would she want to meet me again?" he kept asking himself but he did not know
the answer to it. But he knew it was going to be an anxious night.

That night, as he lay supine
on his terrace, counting stars, he wondered if she was anxious too, if she was
counting stars and minutes in pursuit of waiting for the sunrise, if she was
looking at the moon and thinking fondly of him. Lost in thoughts and misery,
he fell asleep under the starlit sky.

The next morning, he rushed
to meet her at their favourite cafe. He saw her waiting for him already. All the
apprehensions he had last night vanished as he looked at her smile at him.

If his eyes spoke volumes
like a book, it was her silence that gave away the unsaid.